Corlys Velaryon
Corlys, for the hundredth time, checked whether the holding belts were tight and secure, and clutched his wife firmly for good measure. Even if the belts were not properly secured, Corlys doubted he would dare loosen them to retie them while they were so high above the clouds. Place him before a storm with a damaged ship and a lackluster crew, and he would somehow find his way through it or drown trying. But soaring through the sky? That was not Corlys Velaryon's domain.
Still, here he was, astride Meleys as they made their way toward Mother Valyria, the Old Freehold. Corlys himself could not say for certain what had convinced him to join this madness. Perhaps part of it was his sense of adventure; another part, no doubt, was the desire to meet the head of the Velaryon family in Valyria. And a smaller, pettier part wished to show Aegor Velaryon that though they might be a side branch, the Velaryons of Driftmark were dragonlords—not merely landowners clinging to ancient names. Corlys prayed that the look on Aegor's face when he saw three Velaryon dragons would be worth enduring this cursed "dragon-riding."
"Loosen your grip, husband!" Rhaenys shouted. Corlys barely heard her over the sharp winds roaring past them. He made no move, hoping she would assume he simply hadn't heard.
"Do it," Rhaenys shouted again, "or Meleys will take a dive—and only one rider will remain on her back!"
Corlys cursed silently and loosened his hold on his wife, only a bit. Rhaenys only shook her head, and Meleys roared before plunging straight down toward the ocean below.
"For the love you bear me, Rhaenys, do not do this," Corlys pleaded desperately. He saw death itself before him—the Stranger, the Many-Faced God, every god he had ever heard named associated with death was staring at him with greed—as his grip faltered. But he could do nothing except obey. Rhaenys was stubborn, vindictive when she wished, and for the moment, Corlys was entirely at her mercy.
When Meleys returned to their former height above the clouds, Corlys saw them again. Six dragons besides Meleys—seven in total. Viserys had not even spared his six-year-old son, bringing the boy along to Valyria. Corlys could not truly blame him. Without Aegon's Quicksilver, House Targaryen would field only three dragons—equal in number to House Velaryon's, but smaller. Viserys would be a fool to let the lords awaiting them believe that House Targaryen's dragons were fewer and weaker than those of its vassal house. Even so, Syrax was struggling to maintain pace over long distances with older, more powerful dragons.
Corlys squinted ahead through the biting wind and saw his son and daughter locked in their familiar rivalry—each trying to prove better mastery of their dragon in the air—while the others struggled to keep up. Even Meleys, once the fastest dragon of Targaryen breeding, had slowed slightly since her sudden growth. The Red Queen now stood on the verge of surpassing Vermithor, the Bronze Fury himself, mount of the Old King and far older than Meleys.
Those two flying ahead with their riders was no small blessing to House Velaryon, and Corlys thanked every god he knew for it without missing a day. Even his greed and ambition were sated. All he needed now was to live long enough to see his son bear the title Lord Velaryon in a way Corlys himself had never dared to dream.
And with Laena as his wife, their children—the next generation of Velaryons—would inherit his son's abilities and raise the house to heights unseen in this world. With his legacy secured, Corlys allowed himself to enjoy life. He admitted, if only to himself, that he also took delight in displaying what he had built. In a sense, he was resting—taking a rare pause from the endless ladder of ambition he had climbed his entire life.
"Ready yourself, Lord Husband," Rhaenys called. "In an hour, we will be amidst the Fourteen Flames of Valyria."
Her voice pulled Corlys from his thoughts. He twisted in his saddle and glanced back at Syrax. The yellow-gold dragon's condition always told Corlys how long they had been flying, and Syrax looked worse for wear. It seemed they had skipped any rest at Volantis and were flying straight for Valyria.
The stops at Bloodstone and Lys had been brief. Viserys had grown increasingly anxious—and excited—as the journey continued. The King behaved like a child throughout the voyage, one torn between fear and wonder. In Lys, at least, they had stayed a full day, unlike Bloodstone, where they rested only a single night before taking to the skies again before dawn.
In Lys, the Valarrs had hosted a grand feast in their honor, inviting influential merchants and wealthy princes of Essos, at least those who were there and could spare the time at the imminent invitation. Daena Valarr remained glued to Prince Daemon the entire night, while Lord Valarr all but kissed Viserys's boots, speaking with him as one might an old friend. The feast had been a display—a demonstration of the connections House Valarr maintained with House Targaryen. Corlys learned that many Lyseni were still skeptical of Valyria's return, far less informed than the Volantenes, claiming it to be only a drunkard sailor's tale and slaves' hysteria. Their loss.
Corlys's thoughts drifted from foolish Lyseni to what Laenor had told him of the Velaryons of Valyria. Corlys preferred calling them the Velaryons of Valyria rather than the "main branch." The wealthiest Freehold house is only behind the upper twenty dragonlord families—still commanding immense respect through gold, blood, and name alone, after they lost their dragons. And did it not make Corlys and his brother preen like peacocks of Yi Ti? Fortune, it seemed, truly ran in Velaryon blood.
Lost in his thoughts, Corlys barely noticed the passage of time as Valyria drew ever closer—the motherland lost to Doom long before Corlys, or even his father, had drawn breath.
Suddenly, Rhaenys's posture shifted—from relaxed to straight and rigid. Corlys, who had almost forgotten he was soaring through the sky, snapped back to his senses. His eyes widened as he saw both gargantuan Velaryon dragons—the mounts of his children—climbing to a height he had not thought possible. For a heartbeat, he wondered if his children had gone mad to fly so high… until the dragons roared at one another and dove.
Corlys's heart nearly burst from his chest as he watched their wings fold tightly to their sides, their massive forms plummeting like twin stars falling from the heavens.
"Have they gone mad?!" Corlys shouted, rage and disbelief tearing from his throat.
"No," Rhaenys replied coolly, though anger still edged her voice, muffled by the roaring wind. "I don't think so. When were they ever sane to begin with?"
She snapped her whip, commanding Meleys to follow. The Red Queen answered with a roar and plunged after the two larger dragons, hurtling downward with the speed of a falling star. They pierced the clouds, and then—suddenly—the land below spread before Corlys's eyes.
And what a sight it was.
The heat that had been absent moments before washed over them, and Corlys realized he should have known—they had reached their motherland. The Fourteen Flames rose from the earth like colossal torches bound together by chains of fire. Around them stood towers that rivaled—no, surpassed—them in height. Black stone dominated the skyline, crowned with open rings of silver and gold, just as Corlys had imagined. The towers of Valyria and their open crowns were no secret, whispered of even beyond the Free Cities. Yet seeing them was something else entirely.
There were countless other details—bridges, roads, moving shadows, and even lava river—but Corlys could not yet bind what he saw into words.
The thunderous snap of wings opening against the rushing wind tore him from his trance. His eyes flew to his children's dragons, already banking toward a black tower whose crown resembled a blazing red flame. Caraxes followed close behind them, with Vhagar and Quicksilver flanking the Blood Wyrm. Meleys soon joined the descent, Syrax trailing behind her.
As they neared the tower, Corlys realized it only appeared small from afar. In truth, it was massive—vast enough that Velatharys, Embaryx, and Caraxes landed atop it with room to spare. Meleys and the other three dragons circled until the first trio lifted off again. When Meleys finally landed, her claws screeched against polished black stone, the impact sending a tremor through Corlys's bones.
There, waiting near the edge, stood his children—Laenor and Laena—beside a stone-faced woman whose unmistakable Valyrian features left no doubt. Rhaenys Belaerys. Daemon stood with them as well. And beside Daemon was a broad-shouldered man with a long beard of silver-gold hair, clad in sea-blue robes. Even without the robes, Corlys would have known him by the way he failed to hide his smile as he stole glances at Laenor and Laena—both dressed in leather, the seahorse of Velaryon emblazoned proudly upon their chests.
Corlys dismounted with a breathless sigh of relief. By all the gods, he swore he would return to ships and seas, not skies and clouds. That vow was sealed the moment his boots touched solid stone. He and his wife moved forward alongside Viserys, who had dismounted beside them.
"Welcome, King Viserys Targaryen, to Old Valyria," the woman said calmly. "I am Rhaenys Belaerys. You may address me as Lady Rhaenys—or Aunt Rhaenys."
Her gaze then turned to Corlys and his wife. "You must be Lord Corlys Velaryon and my namesake, Rhaenys Velaryon. I welcome you both to Blackfyre Tower." A slight inclination of her head was all the courtesy she offered—to king and lord alike.
"So," came a deep, gruff voice, "you are Monford's descendants?"
Corlys turned toward the speaker. And upon seeing Aegor Velaryon clearly, Corlys understood at once—the blood of a line as Old as theirs still ran strong. The man before him looked near identical to Corlys's grandsire, Lord Daemon Velaryon, as if time itself had failed to touch that ancient line.
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